


Taking out the Trash

by Dragestil



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Character Death, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Urban Magic Yogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2861876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragestil/pseuds/Dragestil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Christmas pranks go awry, and all good plans are wasted, what's a kelpie to do? An Urban Magic Yogs fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking out the Trash

**Author's Note:**

> I was in the car for six hours on Christmas Eve travelling through rain and fog. As we drove over a bridge and I saw the river below, I thought to myself "What about writing the Garbage Court boys on the run at Christmas?" And thus, this fic was born.

"Eat shit!" Ross growls, lobbing a grenade out the window. "Fuckin' floor it!"

"It only goes so fast, mate!"

"Well it better go faster or we'll be six feet under by Christmas."

Smiffy breathes fluid words of encouragement under his breath as he strokes the wheel. The laws of physics still exist, though, and he can only do so much. Trott's bloodied and passed out on the floor of the backseat, where Ross is perched with a gun in his stony grasp and death in his eyes. They hadn't expected such a resistance to their light-hearted pranks. Still, here they are.

"I don't want to alarm you, but they _are_ gaining on us."

The kelpie grits his teeth. His brows are knit, and his knuckles are white on the wheel. He shoves his head out the open window, staring back at their pursuers.

"Come on, mates!" he shouts past the wind. "FUCKIN' DO US THEN!"

The car swerves recklessly off the road onto an old dirt path. The suspension cries, but Smith doesn't let up off the gas.

"Do you trust me?" he asks, suddenly serious as he glances into the backseat.

"Mate, I think we're beyond that."

"Now's _not_ the time. Do you trust me, Ross?"

"Of course, Smith."

“Great. Let’s hope this fuckin’ works then.”

Ross doesn’t have time to question it. There’s a great splash and suddenly the car is plunging into a lake, _Smith’s_ lake. The kelpie is swearing in the language of water with a hand on the wheel and the other on the window, as if he alone can keep them dry. Of course, though, he _can_. The lake sings its familiar songs into his ears, drawing him deeper into its depths. It is home, yet it terrifies him. It had been so long since he brought someone to its shores, let alone pulled them under. Now he is with the only two people who even matter, and the lake wants them.

“I can’t keep it out forever, Ross, so you need to get Trott out. Get up here and take the wheel.”

“Mate-”

“Ross!” Smiff’s voice is rough with emotion, and the gargoyle realises that the kelpie is actually crying. “Now is not the time. Drive back out. Drive back out and get Trott as far away as you can. I don’t know how long the car will last, but you’ve gotta go.”

It dawns on Ross then that this is not really an escape plan, not for Smith at least.

“The car’s attached to you, isn’t it?”

“Yep.”

“And you’re not going to last.”

“Gotta keep the lake happy. I did bring her fresh souls. Can’t just take ‘em back.”

Ross clambers into the front seat and grabs hold of the steering wheel. Smith offers him a smile and kisses his cheek. Neither of them are really designed for this sort of moment. The kelpie smashes the window, but the water stays outside the car.

“If you make it…”

“I’ll find you both. Just...get out of here before it’s too late,” Smiff says, looking at the unconscious selkie in the back before squeezing himself out of the window.

Ross nods, and wipes his face of any emotion. He still has a job to do after all. The car protests under foreign hands, but he manages to free it from the grip of the lake. It drives, dripping water, away from the banks to what Ross can only hope is safety. He’s certain they aren’t being chased anymore at least. Not many people can drive into a lake and then out the other side after all. The car sputters its dying chokes soon, though, and as much as the gargoyle hits the dashboard, it refuses to move.

He can see the first hints of dawn - Christmas morning - colouring the skies as he pulls Trott’s limp body out for inspection. Ross goes still. The seeping wounds have congealed, and the selkie’s skin is ashen. Everywhere he touches is cold, colder than his own stone fingers. Nowhere he searches provides a pulse. In the rising light, he finds himself utterly alone. Perhaps, he thinks, the car could make one more trip - at least one back into the depths it belongs to.


End file.
